


cause i want to want you (remix)

by sea_level



Category: Project Blue Book (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e09 Abduction, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 08:46:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18117350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sea_level/pseuds/sea_level
Summary: Remix of ease up a little bit.“Doesn’t hurt to check,” Allen counters, and yeah that’s an image, checking, because now that he’s thought of it, now that he’s allowed himself to cling onto and realize this idea of intimacy, he feels his natural curiosity begin to kick in.It’s not that he hasn’t thought about it before, it’s just that he’d always forced himself to dismiss it. To never give it the time or consideration that it begged for. It rushes in now like a tidal wave.Allen tends to the cut he gave Michael during their fight.





	cause i want to want you (remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [ease up a little bit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18054152) by [sea_level](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sea_level/pseuds/sea_level). 



> so yeah uh i remixed my own work lmao. you don't need to read one to understand the other and i mixed it up enough that it should be. fairly different.
> 
> This title and the title of the previous work come from the first two lines of Celebration Song by Unwritten Law which...doesn't really have anything to do with this
> 
> this is probably closer to the version i would have written the first time around if i wasn't a wimp lmao
> 
> unfortunately i tend to be a "write what i know" or "write what i can put my head into" kinda writer so i'm not so good at romantic intimacy. trying to work on that but apologies for any abruptness in that front for the meanwhile

“I can't,” Allen says, cupping a hand over the phone's speaker. He's alone in the room, but it feels like too private a moment to not want to sequester it away somewhere no prying eyes can find it. “Mimi, I can't do it. I can't leave.”

Mimi sighs on the other end, her voice laden with a bone-deep exhaustion. “Oh Allen,” she says. “I knew this would happen.”

“Have we drifted apart that far?” he asks.

“Were we ever that close?” she counters. There's humor in her voice, but it falls flat, the gravity of the situation allowing for absolutely nothing other than complete and total solemnity.

When Allen doesn't answer immediately, Mimi makes a disappointed sound. “Twelve years was a good long time for us. I'm glad for it, but you're right. It wouldn't do to cling on.”

“I'm sorry,” Allen says. “These past few years, I—”

“You've always loved your work, Allen,” Mimi replies. “I've known that from the start.”

Her silence is ambiguous, and without her there in front of him, Allen can't tell how she's really feeling.

“We'll need to talk,” she says at last. “Get things sorted out, figure out how to proceed.” Her voice tilts strangely at the end. Allen's never been particularly good at reading people, but he knows Mimi well enough to know that there's something she's not saying. He doesn't have a clue about what it could be, though. He'd been too inattentive to realize anything had been up.

“I'll be heading home soon,” he says. “I love you.”

There's a slight smile in Mimi's voice when she replies. “I know.” The line goes dead.

Allen sets the phone back down on its housing and then leans back in his seat. Jesus.

He just broke up with his wife, and he didn't even do it in person. Yeah. He definitely doesn't want to think particularly hard about that.

The metal disk that lies on the table before him glints with a preternatural light, providing a welcome distraction. Grateful for it, he lets his mind fill with ways in which he might determine its nature.

To simply cut it in half would likely yield the most immediate results, but if there was delicate technology hidden within it somehow, it would be destroyed beyond all hope of repair. Some sort of x-ray scan might be capable of providing an image of the interior, but there’s no telling what effect the radiation would have. There were the simple tests: take the dimensions, test the density. It might be possible to determine the elemental composition, which could provide insight into the functionality.

Or it could just be a piece of scrap metal, strangely, almost perfectly round, and all the rest was just coincidence.

As much as he doesn’t like the latter, he’s a good enough scientist to know it wouldn’t do to just dismiss it out of hand. It’s always important to consider the mundane, simple solutions. After all, isn’t that why he’s working for Project Blue Book in the first place?

Michael walks in then and stops abruptly like he’s surprised to see Allen there.

“You’re not gonna walk off with that,” Michael says when he sees the disk, a little hurt and maybe even a little wistful.

“What do you want to do with it?” The antagonism rushes back like instinct, and Allen has to remind himself that this isn’t the end yet. Sure, they have some issues to work out still, but he’s going to stay. Not that Michael knows that yet.

“I’ll put it with the tape,” Michael replies. “Deal with it when I get back.”

Deal with it. Allen scoffs internally. That probably just means boxing it up and leaving it alone. It’s a tragedy. He takes a second to lament the state of Project Blue Book before he came in and started asking questions.

Allen drops the disk in the beaker, and, after a second’s hesitation, places it on Michael’s outstretched hand.

“I gotta go out of town. DC,” Michael explains without prompting. “The generals have some conference there they’d like me to attend.” The information shouldn’t mean anything really. It wasn’t even necessary for Michael to provide it, yet he did anyway, extending the same courtesy like he would if he thought Allen was still his partner. Allen can’t help but feel a little guilty.

“You know, you have a—a cut above your uh,” Allen points to the spot above his eye, mirroring the injury above Michael’s own.

Michael gives him a look. “I believe that came from you earlier,” he says, then continues more humorously, “You’ve gotten better since that barfight in Alabama.”

In a strange way, it’s a compliment, and Allen can’t help but laugh though he shakes his head.

“Let me fix it up,” Allen says. “That way you won’t have to deal with it later.”

“You don’t have to,” Michael says, but it’s not really definitive, so there’s room for argument.

“Just let me do this. Consider it a reparation,” Allen proposes. “Like you said, I’m the one who caused it.”

Michael doesn’t reply. He just keeps looking at him consideringly, like he isn’t sure what to make of it.

Allen takes it as an opening. He finds the first-aid kit underneath one of the cabinets and lays it out on Michael’s desk.

“Come on,” he murmurs.

Michael acquiesces. “Alright,” he says and allows Allen to guide him down onto his chair.

“There we go,” Allen says. He pours some alcohol on a cotton ball. “This might sting a bit.”

“I know,” Michael replies, his voice soft, and Allen’s stomach suddenly fills with intimate anticipation. Oh. That’s new. Newish if he’s being honest, but there’s a novelty in its strength.

Allen resolutely ignores it, wiping the wound gently. He’s quick about it and tries to apply as little pressure as possible. Michael’s eyes flutter shut, and Allen can only hope it’s not out of pain. He gives it a final wipe to clear away the rest of the blood and then looks over the site.

“More of a mild abrasion than a true cut,” he assesses. “Should heal up quickly.” He fashions a bandage out the gauze and tape and presses it into place.

Michael catches his own reflection in the window and surveys it critically. “I think it looks worse like this, doc. Like you did some real damage.”

“You never know. I always could have,” Allen says with a bit of humor. “This is just what’s immediately visible.”

“I think I’d know if you’d broken skin,” Michael replies, but he smiles good-naturedly.

“Not what I was thinking of.”

When they were fighting, their clothing would have done a good job providing ample padding. Allen wouldn’t expect to see anything open. Still, he’d shoved Michael against the filing cabinet pretty damn hard.

“And what would that be?” Michael asks.

“Bruising, mostly.” Allen answers.

Michael laughs. “A serious injury to be sure.”

“Doesn’t hurt to check,” Allen counters, and yeah that’s an image, checking, because now that he’s thought of it, now that he’s allowed himself to cling onto and realize this idea of intimacy, he feels his natural curiosity begin to kick in.

It’s not that he hasn’t thought about it before, it’s just that he’d always forced himself to dismiss it. To never give it the time or consideration that it begged for. It rushes in now like a tidal wave.

“Now you just want to see what you managed to do,” Michael mock-grumbles.

Yeah, that really wasn’t it at all. Still.

“Maybe,” Allen says. “Doesn’t hurt to know, though.”

Michael shrugs and stands up slowly. “And what do you propose?” There’s something strange in his voice that Allen isn’t completely sure how to place.

“Let me have a look,” Allen suggests. “I’ll figure out where the bruises are, at least the ones you can’t see, and then you’ll know to look out for them.”

He’s pleasantly surprised when Michael toys with the knot of his tie and then goes all the way, pulling it free in one long and, frankly, very alluring, motion. Michael looks away as he continues undressing, but Allen keeps his eyes on him. It’s one hell of a show. The play of muscles under fabric. The casual efficiency. He rearranges the contents of the first aid kit to keep his hands busy.

He turns around to put the kit away when Michael pulls his undershirt off over his head. When he comes back, Michael’s standing there, his clothes discarded messily on the desk.

It’s something of a revelation to see him like this. Michael wears his skin with something of a belligerent confidence. He’s not showy or flashy but he does hold himself with a precise efficacy that Allen finds himself inexplicably drawn to.

Allen knows passion. He’s felt it brewing before, deep, dangerous, spurring him into action and obsessiveness. It’s always been in relation to his work.

Allen doesn’t think Michael quite counts as work.

“Alright,” he says, gesturing for Michael to turn around. “Let me see.”

Michael does. “How does it look?” he asks. “Did you do as much damage as you thought?”

Allen laughs. “Looks good, for the most part,” he says because it does look good. Really good. How had he never noticed this before?

He wants to touch, to run his hands over the smooth planes of Michael’s muscles, and then he realizes that, technically, he can. He does kind of have an excuse, doesn’t he?

“You do have a few bruises though,” he says. “I’m just going to...” he trails off as he carefully touches the skin next to one of the bruises. Michael jolts but doesn’t move away.

“Sorry,” Michael says, “I guess I wasn’t ready. I am now.”

“You’ve got one here,” Allen says, slowly circling a spot on Michael’s upper back. “I think that might have been from the handle on the filing cabinet. And then another one here.” He goes lower, trailing his fingers. He tells himself it’s so Michael can know the relative distance between the two bruises, but it’s such an obvious lie. “It’s almost to your side, where the rib cage ends. The last one is here, up by the juncture of your arm. I don't think that one’s from me, though.”

Michael lets out a breath and turns around. He looks...constipated? Maybe frustrated?

“Thanks,” he says with very little conviction. He reaches under the pile of clothes on his desk and pulls out Allen's resignation letter. “Standing over here, I remembered.” He stares at it with poorly disguised disappointment. “You’ll still need to sign this if you want to make it official.”

Allen takes the paper, looks it over, and then tosses it into the trash. “I've reconsidered.”

Michael's eyes widen with shock, and a minute expression forms on his face, but it's gone before Allen can even hope to assess what it is.

“That's, uh, I'm really glad to hear it.” Michael looks down quickly at the bin and then back up at Allen again. “What changed your mind?”

 _I've fallen in love,_ he doesn't say, and resolutely keeps his eyes fixed on Michael's face and not on other, lower things. “I guess I just decided it was worth the risk.”

Michael's demeanor softens. “I appreciate the choice, if you needed any assurances. You’re the Project’s greatest asset, but also—” He stops and swallows, his face flashing from apprehension and then to determination. “On a personal level, and not on a professional one, I, uh.” Michael smiles, soft and genuine. “I think I’m a better person when you’re around.”

The weight of the statement is humbling. That he’d even had an effect was not something Allen had intended, much less realized. In his anger, he’d allowed himself to come to the assumption that Michael hadn't changed at all after all this time, that, despite everything that they've seen together, Michael was just willing to go out and say the exact same bullshit that the generals fed to him. In his anger, he'd missed the crucial fact that he was wrong.

He was very good at missing all the little things. In only focusing on the points of resistance, he’d apparently missed all the ways Michael had been receptive, and, yeah, now that he looks back on it, he can see all the times that Michael humored him and trusted him and met him on the same level, letting him test his theories instead of just dismissing them out of hand like the generals would prefer him to.

“Really?” he asks. The word comes out heavy with emotion, struggling out of his mouth.

Michael sways in place, the space between them narrowing.

There. Allen sees it—the point of no return. Something in Michael’s eyes that lets him know that he’s not the only one. Everything falls together in that brief second, a thousand assurances passed without a single word spoken.

“Yeah,” Michael whispers. He lifts his hands and rests them on Allen’s shoulders, close to the neck.

Allen leans forward to close the distance, sealing his lips over Michael’s. Michael responds gently and almost reverently, pulling Allen closer. Allen lets himself settle his hands on Michael’s sides, reveling in the feeling of skin under his fingertips.

They break apart eventually, Michael wearing a look of overwhelming serenity. “This is okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Allen responds. “Better than.”

“Mimi?”

Allen winces. “We’ve decided to separate,” he says, “on account of the job.”

Michael makes a sympathetic noise. “I’m sorry.” His fingers travel up to Allen’s hair, and Allen almost wants to lose himself in how nice it feels.

“I don’t see why you should be,” Allen replies and then reaches up to cup Michael’s cheek, pulling him in for another kiss.

They take their time, just like before, soft and exploratory. It’s all new sensation for Allen, like seeing the stars for the first time. Novel in their concept, boundless knowledge hidden within. All he has to do is to jump in and drown.

So he does. There’s never been anything easier.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for taking a week. I uh kind of had an essay and a midterm and then I kept getting distracted by research opportunities and I swear the ending alone took 2 days. I'm the opposite of prolific.
> 
> I also definitely feel more comfortable writing in Michael's head for whatever reason
> 
> Open invitation to let me know if I messed anything up!


End file.
